


Wanderbook

by chewtoy



Category: Original Work
Genre: Character(s) of Color, Dystopian kind-of, Family Issues, Full Novel, Gen, Industrialization of magic, Magic, Most of these characters aren't white, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Sci-fi/fantasy, Slavery, Worldbuilding, no last name, wolf spirit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-08-29 22:49:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8508562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewtoy/pseuds/chewtoy
Summary: Zeilla, a hunter's slave, finds herself bought by a stranger and quickly moves into a terrifying new situation. She shares minds with a metaphysical wolf spirit named Skersha, and learns that the wolf has powerful abilities to heal, deceive, and change people's realities. As Skersha struggles with depression and incessant boredom, Zeilla struggles for her very life and freedom. What neither of them knows is that these are the least of their problems.





	1. Chapter 1

Like he usually did when they stopped in a town, Silas found a pub with all night glowlights and set out to get himself completely pissed. He rode into his horse, Zeilla on a second, and demounted as soon as he saw a sign that advertised heavy liquor. He was so one-tracked about it that he barely bothered to take his coin pouch with him.

“Tie ‘em up tight, girl.” He didn’t look at her as he walked into the bar.

Zeilla sighed, arms limp save for the firm grasp she kept on the reigns her master just handed her. She led the horses, quickly as she could, to a post that was within range.

He hadn’t ordered her to directly, but from past experience she knew she was to stay and watch the horses in the case that some thief, probably shifty, small, and otherwise similar to her, got it in their head to steal them. About halfway into his drink, Silas would realize how compromised he was and send her to an inn where they had proper stables and maybe even a proper bed. Then he would most likely find a nearby bar and set about drinking again until he fell asleep in some corner of the bar, sleeping there all night solely because the bartender didn’t want the trouble of moving a man who resembled a bear more than he did a person.

The crisp air seemed to drop a degree per minute as Zeilla waited. Her arms crossed. She shivered. She knew they were a long way from Silas’s woodsy cabin where the nights froze over during some parts of the year. However, desert nights got unbearably cold as well. Her fingers brushed lightly on the horses’ tie post and the callouses on her hands sung a familiar song of pain. At least her sides, mottled with new dark bruising, required little contact. The horses stomped. Silas’s gelding whipped its tail at her, barely missing.

The sun was now irretrievable for the day. She began to suspect that, tonight, Silas might not come back. She cared very little about his ability to remember her, and so would have been fine. That is, if there hadn’t been so many unknown faces and muscular jaws that grinned at her as they walked by the orbally lit bar, some whispering to their friends loudly enough to make her aware of their inebriated states. Or if it hadn’t been so, so cold.

Zeilla normally didn’t mind the cold. Embraced it, even. But tonight after a day-long ride under the seething sun, her body had almost adjusted to heat. With the temperature fluctuation that was a desert night, goosebumps were already forming on her arms.

And those faces. Those eyes, slinking by, lit by lamp orbs and intention. For a moment, she considered getting Silas, drunk by now, to give her the money for a hotel room. But no. He would consider that disobeying him, especially if he didn’t remember. And so soon after having run away, she didn’t want to risk his hot alcoholic breath. Or his hot alcoholic temper.

She rubbed her arms again, leaning back against her own horse. A man with a familiar face but whom she swore she had never seen walked by her, into the pub. His hands fluttered in his pockets as if they were preparing to be in someone else’s pockets soon. She didn't quite recognize him, but she knew, from his posture or his clothing or something else about him that she couldn’t place, that he was here to see Silas.

The stranger was here to see her too, she decided when he glanced at her and the creased tension around his mouth released. She dropped her gaze from his. He stopped before entering the bar, seemed to hesitate for only a moment, then continued walking. Only then did she realize her weak nails had dug into her palm, drawing blood. At least they weren't the other kind of nails that grew rust, the kind in the planks of Silas’s cabin floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo guys! I know not many people will see this because it's not a fandom work, and this is a fandom site, but that's okay. I'm fine with that. I love the format of this website, and I wanted a place to direct people if they were interested in my writing, so here it is! Spread the word if you like it, comment if you're confused, and there will be more chapters to come!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skersha appears for the first time. Silas gets back home.

She almost nicked herself on a nail like that days before, pulling her only precious belonging from its hiding place. The box came from its shallow hole as if it was made of dirt and crumbled. Even though Silas was clearly not yet home, and with good luck would not be for an hour or so, she peeked out the window for sign of his return. Her chin rested on the windowsill as she opened the curtains, but when her darting eyes found no hulking man to latch onto, she slid from her tiptoes to the ground with a limp sigh. Her hands went straight back to the rough wooden object.

This box contained things she could claim to be hers and hers alone, a rare privilege under her master’s roof. Silas could not take it, or any of her carvings, from her. Not unless he was curious enough to examine his own living space. Of course, he wasn’t. The swelling pride of ownership set her fingertips ablaze as she brushed them over the chess top, done when her skills in carving had been much less refined.

Skersha appeared beside her. Her claws clicked against the floorboards, only somewhat padded by fur. At the beginnings of their relationship, Zeilla had jumped every time Skersha appeared with no warning. Now, she found it commonplace. It had taken some time to comprehend, but Skersha was the consciousness of a grey timberwolf, forced to share Zeilla's brainspace by people neither of them remembered. It had been so long ago. Most of her life, even. Long enough for her to forget the concept of private thoughts. Long enough for Skersha's blazing desert-storm anger of hatred to solidify into a hardened glass weapon.

“Are you in the mood for a game?” Skersha asked, pacing on all fours.

Zeilla's eyes narrowed. “It's too late.”

“Then why'd you get it out?”

She grit her teeth, but brushed the wolf aside. “Don't you have animals to t-torture? Orphans to steal from?"

Skersha growled, and disappeared in a blink, reappearing in her human form. She used to lament how her human form was simply a twisted replica of Zeilla's own body, if it were full grown and properly fed. Now, however, she used it often, mostly when her wolf expressions weren’t being understood.

“You know full well that these woods bore me. If I weren't in your head, I might wonder about your sanity, living here.”

“You d-don’t help.”

Skersha's laugh, a head-thrown-back explosion of sound that had her shaking the wood under her feet, was not infectious. She ignored her, having little time for whatever mind games the she-wolf was attempting, and continued the ritual of touching each of the pieces, one by one. The latest was placed among them, at last completing the chess set and adding yet another carving to her growing collection.

“You should smile more,” Skersha said, when she felt the girl ignoring her.

“I am smiling,” Zeilla’s upper lip curled like a wordless snarl, “can't you tell?”

The dark wood ran soft and rough under her fingers. The girl closed her violet eyes, if not to better feel her creation, then to block out the image of her mental partner. Skersha rarely added in extra effects like breathing or the creaking the floor makes when people are on it when it was just her and Zeilla. When she closed her eyes, it was as if the she-wolf had never been there, every trace wiped from the surrounding space. Outside, a dog barked. She started, nearly knocking the box on its side. Her fingers scrambled for purchase on the now too smooth box. She silenced herself as much as possible, the low voice outside growing nearer.

“What?” Skersha asked, her voice slamming against Zeilla’s frightened silence.

Shh, she hissed, without speaking. Another sound, the kind that vibrated the small makeup of the air, coming from outside. Silas did not move silently. Skersha finally seemed to glance the panic in Zeilla’s mind, because she disappeared.

She heard more barking and realized that he’d already tied up the dogs. That he was only steps from the door. That he would take one look at her treasures and crush them before there was time for a second look. The chess board shut as fast as she could force it. She was about to place it back in its hidey hole when she realized that the queen, her newest most finely detailed creation, had fallen out. She grabbed it, taking two more precious seconds, placed it back in the box, and shoved the whole thing under the loose floorboard.

The cabin door opened hard enough to shake the house. Her master did not make halfway movements. Zeilla looked up at Silas. His eyes narrowed.

“Food ready?”

She nodded quickly and jumped up to fetch his simmering pot of soup from the fireplace behind her. Silas shut the door hard behind himself. There was a clammer as he dropped all his gear to the ground and peeled away layers of excess clothing. Her hands shook from adrenaline and… well honestly his presence was enough to make them so.

“Wait,” he commanded. She froze.

“Y-yes, master?” Zeilla hated the fear in her voice, the way it forced her words to stutter past her tongue and through her teeth. It had been a long time since she could speak to him without it. Really, to anyone but Skersha. She took it as a sign of her constant fear of speaking out of turn. He liked it better that way.

He stalked over to where she’d been crouching, walking past the small square dining table and his armchair. His black leather boots came to a stop just a step from the board.

“What were you doing?” She opened her mouth, “Don’t lie to me, girl. You never sit here. Don’t want none of your tricks.”

“I w-was talking to Sk-skersha, sir,” she said. She stared intently at her dark hands, willing them not to shake, or trying to.

“Why here?” he demanded.

Zeilla remained silent. He was in a bad mood and there would be no convincing him of her innocence. Especially since he was right.

Those black boots took a heavy step towards her and landed. Right on top of her loose plank. In a split second of panic, she allowed her eyes to dart down to the bottom of his shoe. Silas’s eyes followed hers, and he lifted up his right foot.

“Here?” he said quietly, not a question. “What did you…”

Her whole body stiffened. He barely spared himself an indulgent grin before going down on one knee and gripping his thick fingers into the defenseless floorboard. Zeilla could feel the tremors starting when he ripped the whole floorboard clean off. They started in her arms and seeped through her chest into her heard. Even her heart seemed to shake in terror.

“What is this?” The chess box was still intact and not yet open. That would soon change.

“It-it’s a…” her mind raced for an explanation, a lie, a distraction, “a box. Sir.”

The force of his glare was enough to concentrate her tremors into one visceral flinch.

“I know it’s a box, idiot child.” Silas stood up with the box in hand, “Why’s there a box?”

Head lowering, her mind raced frantically for a way to placate him. Surprisingly, Skersha didn’t make commentary on how much she was in for now. Zeilla knew exactly what she was in for.

“Answer me,” he demanded. She glanced at him. His eyes were brown, but there was a red around the pupil that reminded her of a fire, trying to burn her down.

She licked her chapped lips and unclenched her jaw. “I… it’s a p-project. Carvings. Trees and shapes an-and such—”

The box hit Silas’s floor with the combined force of a large muscular arm teaming up with gravity. She winced at the loud crack it made as the wood of the floor and the wood of its sides took the full brunt. Even now, with everything Silas had done to ensure her fear, it took near all of her self control to stay where she was. So many stupid urges in her longed to grab the cracked wooden creation and dash out the door, to run away and try to never come back. Experience held her still.

His voice grew deeper. “Whose knife did you ruin with this?” So that was his game.

“Yours, m-master,” she whispered to the ground.

“Speak up,” he roared. She flinched at the sudden outburst and made accidental eye contact. A curling smile was pinning itself to the corners of his mouth. He liked it when she responded the way he wanted. He liked the idea that maybe this time he had tamed her.

She raised her voice and made the mistake of meeting his eyes. “Y-yours.”

It was a good thing her jaw was clenched again, because she barely moved an inch to the right before Silas’s palm slammed into her face. She stumbled backwards and might’ve fallen had he not grabbed her shirt collar.

“You do not ruin my things.” She nodded vigorously. Her master dropped her, and she scrambled to her feet. One look at his unphased expression could tell her he was in one of those moods again. Sometimes he liked to pretend he was her adopted father, that he was not only capable of caring for her but that he did it out of some form of fondness. Tonight, he would have no problem if she was left a sniffling heap in the corner. “The knife you stole from me, thief. Bring it here.”

Zeilla went to the dirt hole next to the fireplace where the fire was slowly dying and the dredges of Silas’s stew were hardening at the pot’s bottom. Buried in a paper thin layer of dust was her carving knife. It was a cheap stone knife, only usable because of how obsessively she cared for it. The wooden handle had seen better decades, but it was kept together by tightly wrapped shreds of cloth torn from her clothing. Years, and he hadn’t missed the thing. She turned to her master, who had taken to resting his weary feet. His armchair was light red and the plushest thing he owned. It faced the fire. With nothing around it, it always looked out of place.

She presented the knife to him in her upturned palm.

He took the knife and toyed with it. He looked at it intently, as if he were fond of it and were trying to memorize every pleasant feature. She couldn’t stop thinking for the briefest of moments that she wouldn’t mind if he were to look at her like that. In her attempt to smother that thought, she failed to pick up on his movements, yet again, until the knife was already sailing past her head.

What she let out was the younger sibling to a scream. In backing away, she fell to the floor, palms to the ground. With wide eyes, she stared at her master. She felt she’d forgotten how to breathe.

Silas laughed. “Bring my food.”

Nodding, gulping, standing, she found herself doing as he told. The stew was overcooked, with the lingering scent of burnt vegetables. She tried to avoid glancing at the knife. Only a hand from where her head had been, it was lodged deep in one of the cabin’s storm braces. Zeilla handed her master a steaming bowl of stew. Aside from the vegetables’ overcooked softness and the slightly off taste, it was just the way he liked it. He immediately scooped everything but the broth with his spoon, devouring soft bites as if he hadn’t eaten properly in weeks, which she knew to be false, by the rate at which she fed him. When she turned to fill a second bowl, he waved her back towards him.

“Don’t bother with that. Sit.” She grit her teeth that he would refuse her her meal. “Did you finish your chores?”

 “Yes, sir,” she plopped herself down. Without a bowl to occupy her hands, they picked at their dirty fingernails.

Silas chugged the bowl of broth like it was a mug of liquor and he threw the empty bowl to the ground. She eyed him from the floor. If she could figure out exactly what kind of mood he was in, she could decide how best to placate him. And maybe he would forget about her carved projects.

“C’mere, kid,” he said. She scooted herself closer to his chair. “Hand it here.” His finger motioned to the floor and internally she cursed him. As terrifying as it was, she wished he’d just get drunk. It was always easier to distract him then. When she handed him the box, he put it in his lap and took a deep theatrical sigh.

“You don’t seem to be listening, so listen now.” Zeilla turned her head, right ear up, and kept her eyes down. He folded his hands. “What I buy in this house with my money is mine. I own it. I won that money with work and good business sense. I got skills and strength that you’re too dumb and small to have. And I used all that to get my money to buy my things.”

This was the most she’d heard him say sober in a good while.

“Now I don’t have much money, and I don’t have much things, so when you go and steal from me like I got magic money, I get sore. I feed you and clothe you your needs, and you turn and steal from me.” His thin light brows drew closer together. “When was the last time you helped me my needs, girl?"

It took her a moment to realize he expected a response, but by then he was already off again.

“You don’t. Don’t even try to. Take all my money, will you? On clothes, on food, on return pay? Every time His Glory returns you, I give him half a month’s hunt for free, you know that?”

She shook her head no, teeth grinding, eyes at his feet. She hadn’t known that, though she knew how furious running made him. Despite that, no matter how angry he was upon her re-capture, and no matter how he took it out on her, that time of freedom was worth it. Even if she just wandered around homeless in the underbelly of Nefitar City for a week in a vain attempt to find Fedyr’s new haunt, it was always worth it.

“No, of course you don’t. Don’t care what I do for you.”

Silas stood. The box clattered to the floor for the second time that day. It was sudden enough for the girl to practically fall on her side before scrambling to her feet.

He glared at her and growled, “Sit back down.” She did. He began pacing. “You had two purposes: doing chores and getting that silding animal of yours to create for me. You’ve failed so completely with the beast that it won’t speak to me. And now I find you playing games that dull good carving knives instead of doing chores.”

A small stubborn part of her mind felt the impulse to argue with him. It felt the impulse to say that Skersha was a she, not an it, and that despite her hatred towards both Zeilla and her master, she was less of a beast than he had ever been. That speck of rebellion was a voice that years of trying had not been able to kill. Zeilla did her best to stifle it all the same.

“Sor-sorry, master.”

Her eyes were back on the chess set. If she could get through this without him remembering it, then she could find a new hiding spot and all would be right in the tiny fragment of world she had carved out for herself.

“You’re sorry.” He barked out a laugh. He put his hands on his face and turned his face to the ceiling. “Your sorry doesn’t get me what I want.” When his gaze followed hers, she realized her mistake.

The burly man picked it off the floor. “Tell me,” he said, “this what you want?"

She looked up at him.

“Answer,” he yelled, blood visible beneath white skin. A bit of spittle hit her cheek.

“I w-want to eat,” she said.

“Good,” he said. He turned to the fire and threw the box in it. Zeilla stared. He hadn’t even bothered to look inside.

“N-no!” she breathed out in delayed response. She looked back at him, “You—”

He tried to hide his anger. To an observer whose safety did not depend on recognizing the emotion, he might have seemed only irritated. To her, it was as if anger was trapped in every miniscule muscle of his pale face. Still he held himself back. “The fire was dying. You want warm stew, no?” The fire curled around her creations and reminded her of an animal hesitant to take the first bite. Soot stained the sides. Small sparks already scorched the porous material.

Please, Skersha, she mentally begged. That of all her hard work as nothing but firewood spurred her into recklessness. Please save it. I know you can. The wolf’s voice remained silent, though Zeilla could feel her listening. Waiting for an acceptable deal. Use your energy. I swear I’m not lying when I say whatever you want, I’ll do it. I swear. No response.

“You c-c-can’t,” Zeilla croaked out, voice cracking, before she thought to reconsider.

“I can’t?” That ugly anger spread from his face to the curled tension in his meaty hands. “So now you tell me what I can’t do?”

She looked back to the ground. Her eyes closed. During instances like these, the world tended to take on an unreal quality. Theoretically, she knew what came next. However, she was having a hard enough time convincing herself that the floor under her thighs, the sound of crackling fire, or even the heavily breathing man above her were at all real. The dark throbbing space in her mind where she and Skersha lived seemed much more realistic.

“You’re useless,” Silas was raving, almost to himself. “I don’t know why I ever agreed to buying you.”

She stood up. Her toes curled on the freshly swept floor that she would be sweeping again tomorrow, injuries or no. Her eyes locked on his in a way that always set him on edge.

“Then let me go.” There was a pride at keeping the stutter from her voice.

He backhanded her. She stumbled, but stayed standing, planting her feet. The sting on her cheek was expected, but still painful. Now both sides of her face hurt. She willed her eyes dry and wiped a speck of blood from her cheek.

“You will show me respect,” he said, voice as low and growly as ever.

Zeilla knew, since Skersha would be no help, she had two options. She could either act cowed and prolong the inevitable, or she could get it over with. She glared up at him.

“Don’t d-deserve it.”

His furious yell was enough to get the dogs barking. She curled in a ball as he hit at her, but her arms could only protect so much. There was blood on the floor but most of it dripped from the knuckles of his right hand. What little left her body found way to her thick brown shirt and was sopped up before it could begin to stain floorboards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have questions, comments, concerns, or death threats, write something down below. Chapters 3 and 4 will be quick on their ways.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stranger is seen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the election results in, I felt I needed to do a bit of writing. So I'm posting more of this.

When he finally stopped, he went outside. Zeilla didn’t unfurl her body until she could hear him out there, screaming into the twilight sky and kicking at trees. She hurried to crouch by the fire. Despite the possibility of serious injury, she didn’t take time to assess her well-being. If she was in fatal danger, at least, Skerhsa could be trusted enough to heal her.

She poured the water bucket on the fire and put her hands into barely cooling ash. She dug with the hope that at least something was salvageable. It hadn’t been more than fifteen minutes. It couldn’t have all burned.

Scrabbling in the dust until her fingers were stained black and the fresh cut between her middle fingers stung, along with her sides, her arms, and the majority of her face, she found nothing. There was a larger pile of ash than she usually had to dispose of, but there wasn’t a scrap of evidence that her long delicate work had ever existed. She sat back on her heels. The tears she’d been holding back began to flow. As she wiped them away, her brown cheeks were stained.

Zeilla hated crying, from both herself and others. This was why now, shivering outside in the cold, waiting for her master to exit the bar blind drunk, she had to resist the temptation to sneer at the man who had just fallen to her feet. She stepped back once, twice, and sat on the water trowel. She had loved her carvings, and it felt as if some of her fire had been placed within them. But she had only cried the once.

The man at her feet sobbed. He stood, turned to look at her, and took a step forward. His image struck her. He was much taller than her, quite stocky, clearly used to manual labour, and shared that pale near-translucent colour of skin that showed off his bright red drunken face. All these features, he shared with Silas. Zeilla considered his height and weight, and for a brief moment, contemplated being afraid. With the second step, he fell yet again, and she realized how drunk, exactly, he was.

“Why won’t you shut up?” she asked him, when he started crying again.

The man jerked his head up in surprise. She assumed he had already forgotten her. “I’m goin’a…” he started. His eerily pale face appeared to turn a shade of green in the tinum powered glowlight. Almost as if jerked by an invisible force, bile forced its way from his stomach and splattered onto the dirt. Sand and dirt and sparse plant matter absorbed little. A chunk of something, Zeilla didn’t want to imagine what, hit the puke with a splat.

“Going to do what?” she asked. The disgust was harder to keep from her face, this time. She enjoyed her fair share of alcohol, but she never understood the people who poisoned themselves as thoroughly as this man.

“Die,” he finished. “Or good as.” And here she could barely understand what he was saying. “Taxes, too much. Family can… if I go.”

She leaned in, elbows on knees. “Your taxes are too much so you’re going to die?”

His head shake was so violent she was worried he’d pass out and fall in his puke pool. “No! No. No. No, nnn…” he trailed off.

"Why are you going to die?” she prompted again, as he stared into tartod.

“I’m not!” he shouted. Now he was sitting and attempting to rise to his feet. “I’m going… I have to sell… if my family has money, they’re be better off, right kid?”

Zeilla shrugged, finding it difficult to muster up a care. “I suppose.”

Failing to stand, he plopped back down on his backside. His face was scrunched with the intent. He focused on his words. “Good as dead. No longer a free man. I’m… s—“ he hiccuped, “going into the service trade. Few histos for that at… least. S’they’ll be able to pay King’s Nyver’s due and maybe even send Yitro for education, if I bargain right.”  
Her hands held each other: he finished his barely coherent slurring and cried again. The service trade. It sounded so professional, as if it were something any other rohit could decide to deal in. Zeilla knew things about Nefitar City. It was the desert capital of an expansive rohit of the same name. It imported many goods. It was almost as rich as the Emphitet’s rohit. Nefitar’s main export was in service, among other things. Zeilla liked calling things what they were. Nefitar dealt in slaves.

“It’s not that bad,” she said. She had hoped this to be reassuring, but his head jerked back up. The drunk man looked at her, finally bothering to notice what she was wearing. Where she was. To look at the signs that painted a painfully obvious story.

“Are you…?” his hands went to his mouth.

She resisted the instinct to give him a reassuring smile because he didn’t need it any more than she did. “As long as you have a good master, it can be bearable. They might even let you see your kids or your family or your whatever.”

His wide eyed stare annoyed her, and she resisted the urge to shove his head back down into his drying mess. “Do you have a good master?”

No sound came from her lips when she opened them, and her dry mouth clicked shut soon after. The man stared at her. She stared back. It was getting harder to see by the second, though the glowlights on the street helped by getting brighter as even the sun’s afterimage disappeared. The man’s mud brown eyes slid to tarod. Those eyes might have been pleasant, once. Now their fuzzy stare was just as saddening as the man behind them.

Silas was stomping towards the horses, looking disappointingly sober. He also looked —and this sent a sliver of fear through her back— extremely irritable. For all her internal complaining, she hadn’t expected him back so early.

“If you want to wake up at all tomorrow,” she told the drunk, "I suggest you drink half this trowel and go back to where you crawled from.”

He blinked her back into focus and seemed confused.

She repeated, “Leave. Now.”

The sad drunk man stumbled off. This was fine. It was best for his general health to be elsewhere upon Silas’s return.

Zeilla looked down at her fraying hard cloth boots and the dry sandy dirt underneath them. It dawned upon her that this conversation was unusual only because it was rare to not be recognized for what she was. Not even their equal.

Silas stomped up, scowling. “I’m going.”

She nodded and untied his horses, one after the other, short ragged fingernails picking cheap rope out of knots. No reason to bother asking what put him in such a huff. He hated talking when he was like this. As she handed him the reigns to the larger horse, a man burst out of the tavern. To be precise, it was that same man from before, with the fluttering hands and oddly familiar face she still could not place. He stalked towards Silas, long legs carrying him fast as hers would’ve were she jogging beside him.

“Silas, I’m not done with you,” the stranger said.

Strange, she thought, that he knew her master’s name. Silas didn’t like people, didn’t like talking to people, didn’t like telling them his name.

“Silas! For twakk's sake!”

The mound of a man rumbled out a, “What? I have places to be.”

“The only place you were going was the bottom of a glass.”

The stranger’s voice was higher-pitched than she expected of someone so tall. Yet it suited him in an odd way, not grating or nasaly at all.

“Who’s saying where I need to be?” Silas turned to Zeilla and put her in the saddle. He did this occasionally though she never needed the help. “You the king?”

“If you don’t speak with me, you’ll be speaking with him soon,” the stranger said.

This gave Silas a pause. A whole stop and turn, actually. “Wouldn’t this be about…” he trailed off.

The strange man stepped closer, now within arm’s reach. “Yes. And I would appreciate it sincerely if we could speak of it civilly and away,” eyes darting to Zeilla, “from prying ears.”

It always annoyed her when her guise of irrelevancy failed to lend her information. One of her favourite activities was listening in on Silas’s conversations. And a shame for such an interesting one too.

“Fine,” Silas said, leading the larger horse’s head to where he could mount the saddle. “Here’s my hotel.”

He reached into a small saddle bag and pulled out a bluescroll with the stylus, to write the address and give the torn off section to the stranger. Seconds later, a new one appeared, and Silas put it back in his bag. A bluescroll was one of his few large expenses aside from Zeilla. They could be used almost an unlimited number of times for around two years before needing to be replaced. As they took away the need for large stacks of ink and parchment, he insisted on their necessity.

“Later tonight?” the stranger asked, one black eyebrow lifted high. His hair was the same shade as hers, a dark deep black. And the texture, if more cleaned-up and shiny than hers, was similar as well. It had a smooth wavy quality that was odd on her, with her dark skin, but looked natural on him, whose complexion more resembled Silas’s.

“I won’t be awake ‘till morning come.” At least he was honest.

“When should I visit, then?” The man’s oddly pristine pants appeared to be wearing by simple contact with the dry air.

“Tomorrow round noon, if you must.” He hoisted himself upon his horse and looked at the man as if to ask what else.

“Noon, then. Good bye Msr.,” there was a notable pause, “Gruff.”

Silas squeezed his horse’s flanks and Zella’s followed without prompting. She didn’t dare to look back to see if the stranger watched them.


	4. Chapter 4

The hotel was nicer than they usually frequented. Nicer, actually, than Zeilla had stayed at in years. It had two beds so she didn’t have to sleep on the floor, and claimed to offer free food in the mornings. Best of all, it had one of those tinum systems that regulated the temperature so it never got too cold at night or too hot at day. Stepping inside after waiting in the cold by the bar was a tactile relief she hadn’t expected. And all Silas had to do to was leave the room before she was nearly melting into the bed that, with luck, she would call her own for many days.

“Now that he’s gone, we should go somewhere,” Skersha said.

Zeilla gave her a look.

“What? It’s not like you’re busy.”

The girl rolled to her stomach and spread her limbs until they touched both sides of the bed.

“Skersha, but I am,” she said, “what does it look like I’m doing?”

The she-wolf crossed her arms and ankles and seemed to hover nearer towards the bed. She seemed to do this often when not wanting to interact with surroundings such as the floor. “To me, like you’re being lazy, wasting time, and wasting my energy.”

This caused her to roll back and sit up. “Energy,” she stated, rolling it on her tongue as if it needed to be shaped anew, “you always use that word, but it’s not a simple power source, is it.”

The she-wolf wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Do I really have to explain this to you?”

She said nothing.

“Fine,” Skersha’s hands rested on her hips, “fine. But this is too much.”

As if some metaphysical fingers had been snapped, her human form, from the shoulders down, disintegrated into a fine mist.

“Stop it! Someone c-could see!” The outburst was a reaction to a frantic internal reminder that Silas could stumble in at any moment. He definitely knew of Skersha. Hated her, but knew of her.

She looked up at the ceiling, probably in annoyance, and Zeilla felt that same snap and pull happened again.

“No one can see me. A general projection’s always easier, but with a low-energy haze form such as this, I can do a localized projection with energy to spare.”

After taking a moment to calm her breath and steady herself, the girl looked back up at her compatriot who was now, for all intents and purposes, a bust with haze for a body.

“Why do you even need a body for this conversation?” she asked, arms crossing.

“Mostly because you’re a visual learner.” Skersha’s floating head spun upside down and back up again, maintaining eye contact in a decidedly disturbing way. Zeilla caught a glimpse inside the neck and realized, with a mild amount of disgust, that there was no brain or internal organs. “But also because sarcasm is easier with a physical human face.”

With a turn away so she wouldn’t have to look at the bodiless head, she sighed. “What d-did you do?”

“Why must you assume I did something?”

“Because you’re being nice, downright convenient, but we’re in a town.” She turned back to the she-wolf, whose head was thankfully no longer spinning. 

“You could be running amok with the towns— townsp-people. Drinking yourself silly or playing tricks on whoever’s blinded by the idea that you’re beautiful.” Her eyes narrowed further. Left handed fingers pressing into right armed skin. “Not to mention, you appeared the moment Silas left so you must’ve b-been listening and waiting to talk to me.”

Skersha gave herself shoulders just to shrug them and evaporate them again. “What if I told you the townspeople are boring?”

“The fact of that as a question means it’s not the reason.”

“Well then I guess I have nothing to tell you.” She hovered her head at eye level for a long pause.

She tried to keep her voice calm, “Would it have to do with my box?”

“What box?”

The blankness in the answer felt like a lump in her throat and a weight in her stomach both at the same time.

“It doesn’t matter.”

The hum of night animals waking up outside grew slowly. People noises, too, were there. Laughing and drinking down at the next-door pub. What she assumed was a couple a few rooms over trying to have a quiet, if exciting, evening. The low thrum she always heard, or felt, no matter where she was. 

Of something being pulled slowly from her, as if by doing it a centimeter at a time, the person doing it thought she wouldn’t notice.

“So energy,” Skersha said.

Zeilla looked back at the floating head and repeated, “Energy.”

“You really should know this.” A blink.

“You really don’t talk to me.”

She found herself wondering how a disembodied head could nod, and whether the definition of a nod required the presence of a neck. Apparently it did not. The noises surrounding them grew to be noticeable yet again. Under the beautiful and stained carpet were floorboards that did not creak nearly as much as in her master’s home.

Her eyes narrowed, “Are you going to explain this energy thing or not?”

“I’ve only been thinking about how to go about it. You won’t understand unless I make it very clear.”

Arms crossing, she turned from her head once again. “Try me.” The grumble came from a place she could not suppress. Skerhsa, who knew many of the workings of her mind —who, when she cared, had the ability to hear, see, and taste the flavour of the very thoughts— did not think her capable of comprehending this. Even spiteful of this, it stung within to the very core.

“Alright, alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

When she did not turn back, Skersha popped in front of her. A loud puff of air made her stumble back into a short hip-height wall that unnecessarily existed between the two beds. The she-wolf suddenly had a body, and with the force of that body’s gravity, grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her until she blinked.

“What the—”

“So to explain,” Skerhsa not loosening the grip, “what I did there was very complicated. It required no large amount of energy, but I had to make sure every small detail was correct for it to feel realistic.”

“Complicated?” She twisted from Skersha’s hands, and ducked under her arm. “All you did was shake me. You’ve done more weird things than that.”

“Yes, but that is because I’ve had a lot of practice with imitating natural laws. Believe me, they go a long way to convincing people that I’m a real person.” She leaned back on the wall and turned her lower half into a haze again.

Zeilla cocked her head, “And what ‘natural laws’ did you imitate just now?”

“For starters, gravity. People may not realize it consciously, but it’s unnerving when a fullgrown woman only weighs enough to make the sound of feet touching floor. I have to shift my ‘weight’ every few seconds, and with that, I have to shift the individual fibres of the carpet, the boards beneath said carpet, the dust between them both. Footprints are important.”

“Ok, I knew about gravity. What else?”

“Well shadows are important. It was big leap when I realized I’d need to create a shadow AND have it facing away from the light source. Which, was complicated at first when there were multiple.” This time, when Skersha shifted her weight from right hip to left, she was more conscious of the smaller motions that must’ve been involved. “Touching people is difficult as well. With objects, they’re not constantly wondering why pressure is coming from the left when your hand is on the right. And temperature.” She thrust her hand into existence and near the girl. “When you humans do this,” their fingertips curled around each other’s, “there are a lot of expectations about pressure and weight and sweat and temperature. You have to convince people you twine hands well. I have to convince them that I have a hand.”

“And how much energy does this take?” Zeilla felt she’d interrupted the wolf. “You talk about how you don’t like spending energy. You ignore me when I ask for help because you’re saving it. How much do you have?”

“I have a limited supply, ok?” Her haze body, even, was capable of looking defensive. “Asking me how much is like asking you how much emotion you have at any given time. It’s… not easily quantifiable. Different illusions take different levels of energy and concentration. Though interacting with things is always harder than making people see me.” Skersha paused, looked her way, and fully materialized her solid body. With wavy black hair, light brown skin, and strange deep violet eyes, she looked like a more adult version of Zeilla herself. The wolf looked at her hands and arms, running fingers over fingers, and seemed to pierce them with her gaze.

“You see, when I mastered the sense of touch, I was able to feel things with my own two hands. It is a… pleasant feeling, I believe. And yet, this body doesn’t feel like my own. Even my wolf body, a near perfect replica of the one I lost, it doesn’t feel quite real, quite solid.” She looked back at Zeilla, something distant and open in her eyes. “I know you feel this sometimes. We are a bodiless pair, wouldn't you say?”

The sudden togetherness of that ‘we’ sent the girl stepping back as if the word was trying to suck her into it. Reminders flashed: Skersha did not care for her. Skersha was known to take what mattered from her, just to garner reactions. Skersha used and took and came back for more because she was without purpose. She had been tolerable, no, pleasant, as of late, but she was only ever like that until the despair hit her again.

“N-no I w-would not,” the girl breathed. That stutter. That crotting stutter.

And without warning, Skersha was at her throat. Hands or claws or teeth or arms, something was choking her. From the explanation just provided, it wasn’t necessarily any of those.

“I can feel every thought you think,” the wolf growled out, “there’s no need to project them at me.”

_Let me go,_ she cried in her mind.

She was dropped all at once, throat, arms, wherever else she’d been held. Skersha was across the room without so much as a dramatic step, pacing. She paced when she was angry. Paced when she didn’t want to break things or play with Zeilla’s head. When she was past disappearing to blow off steam. She was a wolf, was using her wolf body, grinding her paws against the floor. She was a human, scratching at her arms until they left marks. She was a wolf, tearing at the fur on her front legs and licking at the wounds.

Zeilla lowered herself to the floor. Breathing, in, out, took control. In, out, it wasn’t easy. Wheeze, in, out, the less her mindset worsened Skersha’s, the better. In, out, the calmer the both of them were, the better. Especially if Silas, in, out, came in drunk. They’d be in a new town soon. In. Out. As soon as that stranger talked to Silas. In. They would all leave. Out.

_You could run away again,_ Skersha thought. “Not yet.” Zeilla realized she had retreated back into the relative safety of their shared mind. _I have to be sure he won’t find me for a good while. This town is too small. Not yet._

_I hate you,_ the wolf said, more in images and a burning gut feeling than in words. _And him._

_Me too._


	5. Chapter 5

Silas didn’t come back to the room that night, and the slow morning after that was to be treasured. Assuming it was a closet, she hadn’t noticed the night before that there was a tinum toilet system. Not knowing the next opportunity she’d have to relieve herself in something other than a hole in the ground, she spent quite a bit of time in that side-room before continuing to look around. Zeilla didn’t dare to leave the room in search of the supposed free morning food —everything from her clothing to the state of her ratty hair told strangers what sort of person she was, and she didn’t care to be accused of running off at the moment— but after checking all night stand drawers, she found a colorful yet cheaply made board game, surely meant for either children or very inebriated people.

“You wanted to pl-play a game, before,” she said to Skersha. “Interested?”

Skersha appeared behind her, taller than usual, with straighter hair, and darker skin. More similar to shades of charred wood than of the light brown bark surrounding it.

“I have a different game,” she said, head turning to the side and fingernails sliding over the box, alarmingly sharp. “How about I stab you in the legs and we see whether or not you can attract the patrons with your screams? And then we can see if I can heal you before they arrive.”

Zeilla looked her wolf spirit in the eyes, her stare deep and unusually unwavering. This game was new, but not inventive. “Do it, then,” she said. A dare.

“By sliding tarod, my head hurts.” Silas shook the very floor with his entrance. His eyes were unfocused as he looked around the room in confusion. To his right was his pile of unceremoniously dumped clothing and equipment. In front of him was Zeilla. She noted with a bare twitch of a smile that Skersha had fled. Once she discovered that some force prevented her from ripping out Silas’s throat, she had lost a lot of that alpha confidence she used to wear back as a real wolf.

“W-water, sir?”

His eyes focused on her for a second, only for him to close and palm at them. “Uhnn, no…” His groan was one of pain. She couldn’t help but twitch another smile. He did this to himself, after all. “No. I have to… meeting.” He took a deep breath and stumbled out the door again, bouncing it on the frame. She noticed, after a moment, the he’d left the key in the lock. Hoping he wouldn’t think she stole it, she placed it on the nightstand of the unused bed.

 _I’m going out too,_ came the thought, this one more like a colour and scent than a feeling.

 _Don’t attack anyone,_ she warned in all seriousness. Only months before, Skersha had attacked a woman for reasons Zeilla still did not know. She was mistaken for a Tinum and people attempted to subdue her accordingly. Of course, as Skersha had little in common with the humanoid magical creatures who powered most magic-reliant systems, she was able to escape capture and find a quiet place to deenergize from, going back to Zeilla. Something about how Tinum magic suppressants worked had made that a physically painful reconnection for the both of them, though perhaps more so for the wolf.

_I’m not an idiot._

Doing her best to not respond, even accidentally, Zeilla found herself back on the bed and falling asleep. Even with sun at high point in the dry sandy air, the room was nearly as cool as in her master’s cabin.

Hours later, perhaps, because the sun was no longer high in the sky, she awoke.

“Get up,” he said again, stalking towards her and ready to yank her up.

“'Wake, I’m-I’m awake!” she said, blinking the blurriness away.

“We’re leaving.”

Silas had already packed up his clothing and weaponry, the entirety of his remaining gear either on his person or in the packs he slung on his back instead of shoving into her hands as he normally would have.

“Ye-yes, sir.”

After briefly calling Skersha back to her body, and grabbing the room key Silas seemed to have forgotten, they were out and ready to travel once more. She didn’t look forward to continuing the extensive riding they’d done two days prior, but she did look forward to her opportunity. He wouldn’t be expecting it now. The moment they reached Nefitar City, she was primed and ready to steal his horse and run.

Silas checked them out, declining assistance with the bags he was carrying, he had a perfectly good slave right here, and thanking them for pointing him towards the bar he’d slept in. When the man at the counter asked for his key, it was with a sense of urgency that Zeilla placed it on the countertop. The brown paper tag folded against the metal object, and the woman she presumed to be the owner of the inn snatched it up with the same sense of urgency, smoothing out the tag before handing it back to the man for him to sort into a drawer.

“Come again sometime,” the woman said. Her mouth crinkled at the edges, where pink cheek starkly met black skin.

Silas smiled back, though his seemed more reflexive.

They waited outside for the stablehands to bring the two horses, but when they came, only Silas’s gelding was brought. Her mood instantly dropped, because if Silas has sold his second horse, not only would she have to ride behind him, but that meant he’d spent all his money last night. Nothing put him in a worse mood than a lack of funds. At the same time as the horse, a carriage showed up, one of those roofed wagons that were more room than they were cart. It halted, a fine sandy dirt powder kicked up from the road engulfed the street, and the strange man who Silas had gone to meet stepped out.

“Msr. Gruff,” said the stranger, walking forwards and extending his hand.

“Maeron.” They twined hands.

“Is everything in order?” Maeron asked.

“All yours.”

Her master grabbed her by the arm and dragged her, stumbling, to the cab of the carriage. She looked at him with wide violet eyes and felt his ever oddly pale hand tighten, through her sleeve. He had owned her since before she’d known how to ride a horse. Since before she learned to cook. Since before she knew how he liked his house to be cleaned, how it mattered what knife you used to gut an animal, how to sharpen all his tools properly, or how the type of wood burned changed the taste of the food. She’d run away from him more times than she could count, getting lost in Nefitar City and meeting and re-meeting the closest, maybe only, friend she had. And now she was free.  
_Idiot,_ Skersha said.

Free? Why had she thought free?

“You might want to tie her,” he said to Maeron. “I got rope for you to need ‘em. Girl runs a lot. She’s scared of me, but might not for you.”

“Oh, I believe we’ll be fine,” the reply.

He opened the carriage door and shooed her into the cabin. A pouch of what must have been several histos, more than Silas might’ve seen his entire life, exchanged hands. Words she couldn’t hear and that Skersha didn’t care to inform her of were said. The man slid into the carriage, closing the door, with a click.

And Silas was gone. Zeilla stilled her shaking hands as she stared at the panelling between her feet. She tried willing herself to calm, but couldn’t help her mind. What if he was worse than Silas? What if he wanted something from her, the way adults sometimes bought young slaves for? Why did he want her? Why was he willing to pay so much for her? Who was he? How had Silas known him? Was she safe, now, in the orbally lit carriage that was beginning to move? Would she be safe once they reached their destination? How was it that he could afford a carriage with orblighting and the large amount of money she’d seen pass hands? Would he beat her?

“Look at me,” he demanded. His voice was demanding. His voice was low and hard even while is was soft and coaxing. Her chest rose and fell, faster, more shallowly, and for some reason, she didn’t think she could. She didn’t think she could find it within herself to look at him.

“Zeilla,” and that made her look up. People didn’t use her name. Silas didn’t use her name, often. He used it maybe twice a month to reward her for a good meal, or while showing her how to correct a mistake she’d made.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. He smiled, skin pulling into a well-worn pattern, creasing where it was used to creasing. Her breath came and left faster than she needed it to, so that the air didn’t stay in her lungs long enough to be absorbed. Lips pressed tight, eyes wide, jaw clenched tight enough there may have been danger of cracking a tooth.

“Do you believe me?” he asked. The smile looked something different now. Maybe it was predatory, or maybe it was pleading.  
_Say yes,_ Skersha instructed.

“Y-ye-y-y,” she stopped, her crotting tongue. Hands shaking, jaw clenched, tongue unable to force the word out. She nodded and looked back to the panelling of the floor. What if he wasn’t like Silas, not at all? Would she be treated nicely? Would he ignore her, leave her to her own resources? Would she even be going with him?

The carriage jolted into movement, creaking, but not in a fragile way.

“Good.” He yawned, leaned back against the padded bench, and covered face with his cap.


	6. Chapter 6

She could feel the bruises acting up again by the time they arrived. It was around dusk, and the hotel they stopped at was somehow even nicer than the one she’d slept in, now cities away. These bruises were days old now and in the yellow stage, barely visible beneath her dark skin and warm undertones. They were probably exacerbated by her cramped position. The cab bench was well padded, but she had been incapable of sleeping so close to this man, Maeron, though he was himself immersed in tarod.

He was awake now. By the looks of it he was either very agitated or very exited. His right leg bounced on the floor panelling, and his left hand tapped a pattern into his trousers. She could never tell the difference between those two emotions.

As the carriage came to a complete stop, she became hyper aware of how she sat. Maeron was practically pressed into her side, humming and vibrating like Skersha when she used too much energy all at once. Zeilla, on the other hand, was practically curled into herself, shoulders tensed, knees tight together, and pressing into the door on her side. It occurred to her all of the sudden that Maeron’s was not the only door, and that if she was quick, she might be able to jump out of the carriage and run before he could even think to yell her name.

 _No, you have lived with Silas for far too long. I want to see where this one can take you and I refuse to allow you to throw that away._  
If the Skersha thought such an uninteresting threat would stop her, she wasn’t a very quick learner.

_If he beats you, we will leave._

She sneered, holding back the throaty snarl of disbelief that bubbled in her chest.

_I promise you._

Zeilla sat back into her hunch. The promise of assistance meant more than a hundred threats, carried out or otherwise. Overshadowed by her more obvious flaws was the fact that Skersha had never broken a promise. So her word made the girl feel secure, to a degree.

“Where are your personal effects?”

Instead of fleeing through the far door, she jumped down out Maeron’s, ignoring the proffered hand. The faded brown ground imprinted lightly with her dusty shoe prints.

“M-me?” the girl asked, turning to face him.

“Personal effects?”

“Personal…” her brow furrowed, “no.”

The man blinked back, “Msr. Gruff did not allow you your things?”

She shut the carriage door behind her. “Wh-why would I hav-ve… personal effects?” Her jaw clenched, back teeth grinding against the words, “I a-am a p-per… personal effect.”

“Did you not bring something with you? Do you own nothing? Not a necklace or a talisman of some sort?”

The two carriage horses fidgeted, clearly hoping to be watered and fed. Zeilla thought of the old pendant Silas had given her. ‘A gift from your mother’ he had called it. That woman she could barely remember and had an even rougher time picturing. It was common to leave young slaves with something to remember their families by, but this had been… extensive. What sort of person sold their young daughter only to gift them finery? It fetched a whole quarter histo, at least. Might’ve been more if she’d had the time to bargain.

“I own th-these clothes.”

_That’s not what he means._

_I know that._

With a frown and half shake of his head, the tall man turned. He relayed brief instructions to the driver and hit twice on the side panelling. She took her opportunity to really look around, before he led her off to wherever next.

This town was mildly less dusty than the previous one. There was still a bit of sand in the dirt, but not enough to prevent a much more vegetated landscape than she was used to. The road, which was wide, long, and seemed to have no near intersections, was lined by two story buildings.

The buildings themselves appeared to be made of a reddish brown clay material and straw or rocks or whatever else to make it more solid. They were connected: no gapping, no nooks or alleyways to slither between like in Nefitir City, and instead of having glass panes built into them, the windows seemed to be square vacancies in the clay walls. Built with the intention of being windows, and coloured curtains on the inside for added privacy. In front of these long rows of building were green trees, grass, and bushes. In a way, the buildings seemed to have been built around the landscape, curving where it required and sharing walls as a means of building efficiency.

Maeron swept into the hotel almost before she realized he had begun to move. He did not wait for her to follow, but follow she did.

She stood by his side, noticing the thin layering of dust on the bottom of his coat, at he went through the motions of checking an inn room. Two, to be precise. There was small talk and information. Maeron asked after another customer, money exchanged hands, a key was issued, one of those easily replaceable kinds, and they had their rooms.

Only when he attempted to give her her own room did attempt to inform him that, “I c-can sleep on th-the floor.”

“Nonsense.” It set her off kilter to hear the self assured and superior articulation of the word. "I like my floor space.”

He talked on the way up rug clad stairs, though she couldn’t tell if any of it was meant for her. At one point, he mentioned leaving at high noon and she frowned, thinking that a bit late.

Her room for the night was half the size of her master’s whole cabin. The window curtain seemed to fly in the light breeze, not nearly as cold as in the desert night. With wool filled mattress even softer than what filled the one in Silas’s hotel, she puzzled over the day’s events and wondered if the lavish surroundings would make her uneasy enough as to prevent sleep. This was quickly proven not to be the case.

When Maeron nearly had to rustle her shoulder to wake her, Zeilla realized she needed to pull herself together. Living between Silas and homelessness had taught her to be a light sleeper. The bruising wasn’t difficult anymore, let alone enough to warrant laziness. Her master could’ve broken her arms, and it still wouldn’t be enough to excuse sleeping when a man was present in her room.

The day after had been bad though. So much so that it had been difficult to perform basic motions such as sitting or dressing or shoving her feet in their boots. Now, as she moved through these same actions, her mind provided her with the observation that one of the faded socks was in desperate need of darning. Two of her brown toes poked through and stuck to the leather insides of her boots.

Maeron came back once she was clothed. He had stepped up the wardrobe significantly from the previous day, with a full tan suit fit for someone who could afford a thorough cleaning. It had a matching shade of hat, shoes, and even a sandy bowtie. The material appeared silky and soft, like the sort people would hire more experienced people to steal. A part of her wondered how much it would be worth, would she attempt to knock him out and run off with his possessions.

She didn’t actually change clothes, as he clearly had. To begin with she had only possessed three shirts and two trousers; now she had nothing but what she wore on her back. Rather, she found it more comfortable to remove her shirt while she slept. As she sat up in the soft woolen mattress, she tangled back through the thin white puff-sleeved garment until all the holes for her head and arms lined up properly.

“Exciting new day, is it not?” Maeron’s smile was too wide and too bright for the girl to believe in its genuinity. She only stared at the tall man before her, though Skerhsa’s interest was piqued.

_What do you think he means by ‘Exciting new day’?_

_That he has something planned that he finds exciting._

_I’ve always despised your lack of curiosity._

_I’m curious who he’s going to show me to and whether they’ll be my new master. He’s dressed up all nice for someone, that outfit’s nicer than for the road, made sure to get me up at sunrise though we’re not checking out until midday, and he asked stay desk about a specific person last night, though we’re too far away from anyone he could happen to know._

_At least you’re observant. I can never bring myself to be._

_Why I have to._

“Follow me, Zeilla.”

She frowned as she rose from the bed. While appreciating that he’d used her name to calm her in the cab, she didn’t like the idea of making it a habit.

_Do you remember your promise, Skersha?_

_Don’t insult me, child._

The room Maeron led to was in the hotel. It looked like a mixture between the downstairs lobby and one of the rooms. Chairs and everything, it was most likely some sort of small lobby that one could rent out. She briefly noted that the floor was covered in that same never ending red rug as the lobby and her room and that there was a plant in a pot that didn’t seem to require much water. The walls were made of the same clay and straw amalgamation as other buildings. Everything had a place.

The boy, however, looked very much out of place. Because he was very much that, a boy. He only seemed a few years older than she, leaning towards or just having passed whichever arbitrarily specific line his culture drew to define adulthood. Zeilla always tried not to make assumptions as to not be surprised, but she had made one, and she was.

“Zeilla,” Maeron said. She stopped herself from glaring at him only by allowing her curtain of hair to swoop over her face. “This is Ciar Greist.”

She wasn’t expected to respond to that, was she?

“Ciar, as you know, this is Zeilla.” Her wish for him to stop saying her name was only muted by her strike of wariness for how Ciar already knew her.

“Right,” Ciar said. His voice was deeper than she would’ve guessed. He reached his hand out to twine, but she didn’t realize it until a beat too late. After an awkward pause, he put it back down and turned to the man. “When are we leaving?”

Maeron paused. He seemed to want something from the two of them, though what, Zeilla could not guess.

“High noon’s the plan. Until then, they’re serving us first meal in this room.

He dragged up one of the chairs and sat, seeming to expect them to do the same. Not wanting to move first, she waited until Ciar did so, at which point she realized that there were only two chairs. With both of them sitting, she didn’t want to be as presumptuous as continuing to stand, so she folded her knees beneath her on the rug.

When she looked up, her new master —no, maybe not start to think of him as such yet— Maeron held a frown that folded through his entire face. She checked herself, hoping she hadn’t done anything wrong. She didn’t know. It struck an uncomfortable jolt of anxiety through her, but she knew none of his rules or eccentricities.

“Ciar, let her sit. It’s only right.”

Zeilla widened her eyes. Especially when the boy shot her a thundering glare. He wasn’t intimidating par se, at least not in the way Silas was with fat bulk and muscle mass combining over his thick boned frame to create a man more monster than humanoid. Ciar was leaner, shorter. But he still looked like the sort of person who could snap her in two, as hardy as she considered herself.

“D-don’t hav—” she started.

“Sit,” Maeron commanded.

She picked herself up and sat in the chair. It felt too large. The plush padding seemed to try and envelope her, and while Maeron sat like a king in his chair, she felt like she was drowning in hers. The young man went to stand behind her chair with a barely restrained a glare. He crossed his arms. Her mind hissed at the a threat existing outside her line of sight.

“Ciar, you know why you’re here. But Zeilla, did Msr. Gruff have the time to explain the situation to you?”

She opened her mouth and realized that there was very little he’d ‘had the time’ to tell her. Her head shook no.

“Alright. I’d feared as much.” Maeron sighed, “You should know, there is much he was intended to tell you, seeing as you two had a bond, of sorts.”

Zeilla’s eyes narrowed. A bond? A bond. More like a repulsion.

Maeron seemed to see the roads of her mind twisting. “Not that I’m saying you two were close, just that… well, you’ve lived with the man for years. It’ll be harder to explain all this on our own.”

Ciar, still visibly irritated at being forced to move his seat, interrupted. “Oh come off it, you don’t need to spell every single thing out. He turned to her, arms still crossed and glare still lingering. “Look, all you need to know is that you’re special, we’re taking you to where this guy lives, and there’s nothing you can do about any of it.”

She resisted raising an eyebrow. None of that was news. Well, special maybe wasn’t the word she would’ve used. More like ‘useful’ or ‘has a purpose’. But given the good money they paid, it meant they wanted her for something.

“Greist, that’s quite enough. Zeilla, we’re not—”

“C-could you st-stop that,” she muttered. It wasn’t until a moment later that she felt the pressure of the silence she’d created by not only speaking out of turn, but interrupting him.

“Stop what?” he inquired. As he asked, his elbows came to rest on his knees, and he leaned forwards. She didn’t like it. It felt as if he was studying her, learning her ticks. She’d never liked the idea of someone aside from Skersha paying that sort of close attention.

“Saying my n-n-name.”

“Do you not like your name?”

She grit her teeth. Somehow, that was as much speech she could handle at the moment without feeling like a balloon filled to burst. The wavy black hair fell in front of her face yet again.

“Answer him, you little crot,” Ciar said. Zeilla followed them with her eyes as Maeron’s head shot up.

“Do not insult her, Mnr. Greist.” She had met people before with voices like this, who got quiet instead of loud. She never understood the fear, as always Silas got loud. “You forget on what your life value depends.”

“Barid! She’s a silding runner streetie, not some delicate nobel. I’m willing to bet if I got her angry enough, she’d hit me in the face. Right in the face!” The boy grabbed both arms of the chair and planted his face mere inches from hers.

_Don’t you dare._

_I wasn’t going to. He wants a reason to hit me back._

“Kid! Hey, Zeilla? Anything going on up there?” He did not lay hands on her, but she flinched every time his voice raised. Her teeth ground. “Huh? Zeilla?”

“Ciar, stop.” Maeron was seething, was breathing tooth filtered breath. It calmed her an odd amount to realize that his teeth clenched as well.

“I think I’ve saved her enough times to—”

“Twice. You’ve only been necessary in two instances,” Maeron growled, “and to be entirely truthful, I believe she could have handled both on her own.”

With every objection, Ciar grew louder, jabbing his finger at her for emphasis. "How could she have— She’s not even a real princess, old man. Stop projecting what you want— Look! With your eyes! Anyone who sees that little rat and thinks what you do has to be crazy.”

“How dare—”

Zeilla stood. Both sets of eyes locked onto hers, one in confusion and one in annoyance. From what she understood of their conversation, she was more important than the boy, and enough for the man to need her. And she was betting on being important enough to issue demands.

“You,” she pointed to Ciar, vacating her chair, “will sit and quiet.” Before the confidence ran out, she turned to Maeron. “You will say your whole name and who you are and explain w-why he says p-princess.” Her lips snapped shut with the last word.

_That would have been quite commanding had you not ruined it with stutters._

The thought came from Skersha, but sounded quite like a stray thought. She held back a shiver at the idea of finding the wolf's mind indecipherable from hers.

“Speak.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yo guys! I know not many people will see this because it's not a fandom work, and this is a fandom site, but that's okay. I'm fine with that. I love the format of this website, and I wanted a place to direct people if they were interested in my writing, so here it is! Spread the word if you like it, comment if you're confused, and there will be more chapters to come!


End file.
